Death's Monologue
by The-Turducken-Affairs
Summary: In which Death's stream of consciousness involves humanity, the purpose of life, and food. (I'm sure his brain is constantly going, so imagine that this is just one tiny, TINY fragment of his mind). No spoilers, but a warning for mildly frequent references to death (or is it Death?).
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine.**

* * *

I find you all so very peculiar, running around, asking questions bigger than yourselves.

"_What is the meaning of life?"_

"_Why am I here?"_

"_Why do bad things happen to good people?"_

It doesn't seem to occur to any of you that _it is not your place to ask._

We all come here, and I use 'here' lightly to more adhere to your capability of perception than out of any sense of accuracy in the words, with our roles.

Simply because you cannot name the role you play, you assume that means that it is not engrained into the very depths of your soul, that I could not find you based on the screaming duty encoded into your skin, that everything is made in accordance to human.

So really, in the end, it's simply repetitive to ask.

But it remains to be what you persist in doing- all the while, twirling your necks and whirring your toys across expanses to find even the slightest hint of reason.

It is not enough for you to reach, fingertip to puny fingertip, along every corner of "_your" _planet. You must push further. There is metal orbiting your sphere and further still you go, until _my_ galaxy is littered with your creations.

You endure in dragging your nose along my cosmos, leaving the mark of human stench. And yet, your race continues to not reach my list.

It is not just what you mistake as need (since you are selfish and needy and take all that you can), but also what you want and decide you deserve that can reek of simplistic foolery and parasitic existence (And I cannot determine which is of worse quality, for both remind me that I am alone in the trenches of an utterly useless and childish plane).

Disgustingly curious, meddlesome, the itch under my nail. That is your kind- And you!

You are an ant. It is your nature to scurry along in lines of chaos and trail after your wasting fixations. _Barbaric_. You cannot help it.

You are made lesser and thoughtless, but for all your faults (repulsive, messy beings bottled with unnecessary churning of mind and chemical that you are), you make exceptional cuisine.

I find that I do so enjoy a pizza so thick I can drink pools of grease along the line of crust.

To think I can find this in only one (crude and broken and filthy) place!

This deep-dish dough with sauce and slices of pepperoni exists in your far off corner of a spot in a globe and it's so extraordinarily human. Because humanity makes pizza, but I cannot claim to know of anyone else who does.

Humanity has made a name for itself through this incident and blasting of particles until they swelter to the point of mutation (because you change the particles to make what you want- a micro version of the grander scale on which you mutilate surroundings to better appease solely you).

So maybe this is what you add to the order, but you don't see that. You eat what may be your greatest accomplishment, smearing the sauce of success all over your silly little chins and try to think out your contribution to the universe.

Maybe your accomplishment is really an incidental idiosyncrasy from far back in your history and your usefulness has been fading ever since, making you eternally obsolete.

But even when you existentially matter less than your hubris allows you to acknowledge, I warn you. Do not try to drag me into it. I do not like you and I do not like your kind.

I find that some of you squirming, archaic organelles cannot help but to screech your needs right at me; babbling, wrong assumptions forming demands. And you'll lift your fragile skulls along airways, sunlight burning miniscule holes into your retinas, calling for me.

I do not come when called, but when it is _time_.

It's toddler's play to bear my arm across your skin when universe is ready for me to perform my duty. Funny, how no matter which of you scream and plead or laugh and follow, you all do the same thing. You reach an end and want to know _what comes next_.

Didn't I tell you to stop asking questions bigger than yourself?


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me.**

**A/N: So I've never added on to a completed one shot before, but this just sort of happened. I debated whether I should just make a new one shot, but this is written in the same set up/ style as "chapter one" was, so it seemed to better fit here. **

**The quote used is by Lao Tzu (maybe you know him, famed for his start-up philosophy Taoism, wrote a book, had a long white beard...)**

**Warning: The phrase "parents' corpse" is used. I'm sorry. But this is Death who's speaking, so... **

**I've changed this to "T" for general distaste of the human race and talk of death (or is it Death?).**

* * *

If I were to spread you out like stars, you would be insignificant.

You all see this, you all see that, but no one sees you. Because you're just a swarm- a buzzing riot of irritating drones. It is slow madness.

I am one step and a leap away from the edge of your universe, but ever still (on my end is the ever, because your life is comparably still) we are linked. I am, of sorts, your caretaker.

There is this saying about death. One of your kind made it, or rather, thought he thought this new thought, but it's been swimming around ceaselessly and obviously and so it really was a terrible faux pas for humans to flock around his words.

_Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides._

Don't mind me and my slow clap of awe. Honestly.

There is a culmination of things left unclear.

To call you oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, calcium, phosphorus, and the likes is accurate. To call you, after native vernacular, human is accurate. To call you sentient, while something that may give me pause, is plausible.

But does that mean a thing to you?

You don't _really_ understand. Even when you can list the 'whats' that comprise this realm with a tenth of a cell working your recall (which is just a tenth of one tenth of another tenth on an entirely grander scale of tenths), it is not understanding.

I can feel it.

All of it.

Allow me to compare. It's as if you were to hold a handful of sand and acknowledge that this is an oversimplification of each individual grain, but then you knew every grain, in passing, and could, in depth, claim to have met the rock and water of this very grain before it was ever sand.

So I understand.

Do you see yet?

No?

Off in Los Angeles is a small food stand gathering fame. It is earning a name for its bacon dogs. Quite the curious thing, how one cuisine can be the clumsy, substandard combination of a dreadfully uninspired variety. The bacon dog is made from hotdog and bacon and is named quite literally, with its namesake being on par with the level of brainpower used in the entire creative process of its construction.

They are quite delicious though.

Bearing this in mind, I am Death. Your reaper. Your hooded executioner. Your babysitter.

I watch over you. Yes, _you_.

I know the day you were born. I know how your mother, once a child and remaining so perpetually (do so remember my age) but now gaining a child of her own, popped you out and it was all sorts of messy.

So I know you like I know bacon dogs (In case you fail see, that is from the beginning to the end of both things).

The highs, the lows, the rise and fall of emotion, your successes, and (this may yet be the most interesting part humans) your failures. They come to me like they were built on a totem of your blink of existence.

I know you.

I've let you fester. I've let you swarm with your infestation [_your kin_]. I've let you live, until the time comes when your inconsequential prick of awareness sours the air, and then I take you.

Like this, I'm as well aware of your life as I am your death.

Do I care? Not particularly.

I will be here longer than all.

I will be here to take every child and grandchild and great-grandchild of yours, just as I will be here take your God.

So to think, that I am here (and I will yet again stipulate that the basis of this term is to indicate a presence, whose precise explanation of occurrence you will never comprehend, that crosses your own being in some small, barely momentous way) amidst the grist of your kind is obscene.

But _here_ I am.

So it madness. A twisted accolade of something far greater than I.

Because you think I am the greatest thing (for I am your fears, I am your future, I am your parents' corpses and your family, I am everything to you, because everything you know reaches me in the end) when I am a mere part of the plan, and there is so much more than me, of which you will never know.

So it is with despair and drudgery gnawing at me that I follow the greater things, awash in fools [_humanity_].


End file.
